


First Kill

by Mandibles



Series: In which I try to cope with the Colton Thing [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Forests, I JUST READ ON FIRE AND I HAVE HORNY DEREK FEELS GUYS, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Jackson’s first full moon when he makes his first kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Kill

It’s Jackson’s first full moon when he makes his first kill. Derek watches from afar as he barrels through the brush, passing Isaac without a single glance; his attention is narrowed on the scrambling animal ahead of him. Blue eyes flare neon and Jackson launches himself at the animal, white teeth sinking into the thick hide of the throat and tearing in a burst of red. The animal—a stag, Derek realizes as he approaches—lurches before collapsing in a blur brown fur and white antlers.

The warmth of a fresh kill fills the air, that and a kind of satisfaction, a pride. Jackson towers over the deer, shoulders rising and falling with heaving breaths, but before Derek can think to congratulate him, can even register that he’s actually _proud_ of him, Jackson’s taking off into the night with a feral roar. Towards the town. Shit.

Isaac jogs up beside Derek, gold eyes wide. “Do you want me to—”

“No.” Derek braces, the shift prickling beneath his skin with elongated fangs and claws before he charges after his Beta, leaving Isaac behind with a terse, “Stay here.” Finding Jackson is easy since he didn’t get that much of a head start and still reeks of fresh, warm blood, but when Derek stumbles to a halt at the edge of the tiny clearing, he can’t be sure what to do now that he’s found him. Especially when Jackson’s pushing back against a tree with huffs, head thrown back against bark in a long, pale and red-speckled stretch of throat. And, quietly sobs wrack his frame.

But, that’s not what makes him hesitate, makes him slink back behind a tree of his own. No, it’s the trembling hand that drags down his shirt, clawing for the bulge in his jeans that leaves Derek reeling. When he inhales the air deeply, exhales, the aftertaste of arousal lingers on his tongue and his heartbeat begins to thunder in his ears.

Derek remembers this, remembers making his very first kill as a teenager, nerves and hormones bundled and tight. He remembers tackling his own doe with claws and teeth and remembers the rush of it all, the thrill of blood rushing through his veins as his jaw and nails clamped into his victim until he was sure the life had bled out of it entirely. He remembers being frantic and twitchy and _hard_ of all things when he pulled himself away with blood on his tongue, his older cousins watching with knowing lopsided grins.

This is like that, yet it’s not, because while Derek was able—if barely—to will away the unwanted erection, Jackson’s plucking his jeans open and setting his cock free with a bounce and a gasp.

And, Derek can’t seem to turn away, as much as he wants to clear the sight from memory and drag Isaac far, far away before he got any damned ideas. Instead, he ducks away and prays Jackson can’t smell him as the Beta spits onto his blood-dark erection and smoothes the saliva down the length with a tight hand. It could have something to do with how his skin seems too tight whenever Jackson bristles in a pointless rage before him, werewolf eyes bright. It could also be how his chest aches whenever he makes Jackson submit.

There’s really no word for it, at least no word Derek would care to use, but it explains why his mouth goes dry when Jackson finally begins to stroke in earnest, his spine drawing tight as tears stream down his sticky cheeks. “Fuck,” Jackson whispers, low even to werewolf ears, “Fuck fuck fuck.” He ends his mantra with a choked groan and Derek notices Jackson’s almost violent self-touch, his strokes slow, but grip tight and vicious. When he twists over the head, his hips jut out and Derek can just catch the quiver of his stomach  where his red-spattered shirt rides up.

A gasp leaves stained lips; blue, blue eyes flutter open, focused skyward, moonward. And, none of this makes sense—the way Jackson cries as he jacks himself doesn’t make _any_ lick of sense and, in fact, is sick and fucked up to a ridiculous degree—but, that doesn’t stop the tiny thread of interest that curls low in Derek’s belly, doesn’t stop his hand from hooking in the waistband of his jeans. He doesn’t dare drop his eyes when he pulls his shirt out of his jeans, when he unbuttons, draws his zip down, and he prays, prays prays prays, that Isaac would know enough to heed his Alpha’s words _and stay put_.

Because, if he—if he walked in on this—

A wild beat patters deep in Derek’s chest and it takes him an extra moment to realize that it isn’t his; it’s Jackson’s, the boy who writhes, scrapes against bark like a creature in heat, absolutely crazy with his need to come.  Derek finally begins to give into the pressure that’s been building inside of him since the beginning, a wave of need and want and blind lust that grows and threatens to break over him. The shift is triggered, twitches through Derek, and he just remembers to hold the howl that nearly leaves his throat as he reaches to rub himself through his jeans.

Fucking full moon.

Fucking _Jackson_. Fucking stupid, spoiled asshole. Fuck that douchebag, that brat; fuck that stupid fucking bitch. Just—Just—

 _This is insane_ , Derek thinks; _I want this_ , the wolf growls.

As if he can feel the shift in the air, Jackson comes with a wordless shout that quiets the chitter of forest life for a moment, nose scrunched and teeth bared. The shout turns into stuttering grunts, jaw hanging low, as he spurts into his fist with short, half-thrusts and a shudder. With the salt of come that Derek’s sure he can taste on his tongue, there’s the sudden tang of blood, and as he bites his lip to quiet the sounds his body wants to make, Derek knocks his head against the tree he hide behind and wonders. He wonders if it’s from Jackson cutting into his own lip or maybe he scraped an elbow against bark and drawn blood.

Whatever it was, it makes Derek mindlessly grind against his tree, teeth gritted hard enough to hear the grinding in his ears. He rolls his hips, body jerking, toes curling at the rough drag, and, fuck, he wants to come, too, wants to completely drop all control like Jackson, panting and whimpering a ways off, has just done, the smell of it thick in his nose, clouding his mind. That is until a steady thought breaks through, reminding him simply:

 _You can’t_.

And, it’s true. He can’t. He can’t let himself be caught here, can’t come in his pants like some teenager, some beast, and have them—Jackson, Isaac, _Peter_ —smell it on him after he trudges back to the burnt out Hale house. He can’t let it be known how he lost control here, how he gave into the moon’s pull. He _can’t_.

Curling his hands into fists, knocking his head against bark once more, it takes everything Derek has to push away from the tree and turn his back on the scene, on Jackson wiping filthy hands in his shirt that Isaac will definitely catch the scent of later. But, before Derek can stray too far—to flee, really flee—he pauses, announces, “ _Get to the house now, Jackson_ ,” and thankfully his voice is hard, nasty, everything Derek intended it to be. He waits until he can smell Jackson’s shame, embarrassment, then takes off, hoping he can’t smell Derek’s own.

And, somehow, Derek catches the heady taste of the first kill in his mouth.


End file.
